Life in the Fish Bowl
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: Losing Charlie Davis, for Lucien, was not a long or drawn out process. In fact, it was a very quick one. (death of a main character, light Jean/Blake, Rose/Charlie)


/this fic is like 80% symbolism and I am sorry. Anyway warnings for major character death, embalming procedures and grief. ALSO, a very important warning. I do not support the keeping of goldfish in traditional bowls it is very bad for them. Please put your fishy friends in filtered tanks, please and thank! Anyway, enjoy, leave a review if you like it!

Losing Charlie Davis, for Lucien, was not a long or drawn out process. In fact, it was a very quick one. He simply woke up, and Charlie was dead. Of course, there was a little more too it then that but by and large, if you asked Lucien, that would be how he described it to you.

He opened his eyes, in the hospital, and Jean was there. His first thought, after waking up, was of Jean, and wondering if Charlie had kept her safe like he'd promised. (He had) Jean is holding onto one of his hands for dear life, but she is alone. They stare at each other for a few minutes, they enjoy the quiet, until it becomes too quiet and he has to ask.  
"Where's Charlie?" Jean doesn't answers before he's back asleep.

It takes another two days for someone to finally confirm it for him. Lawson does it, since Jean can't. They sat silent for ten minutes while Blake mulls it over. And then he cries out. He can never pin point why he does, exactly, just that one moment it's quiet and the next he's yelling. They let him. They let him.

…

There is a viewing, of sorts. That is to say someone has embalmed him. He thinks of what they have done to him. He knows the process, studied it as something for a dilettante. He conducts autopsies, it is only natural he would want to see the next step in the process of burial.

They lay him out on a table, protected whatever dignity that might of remained with a cloth and massaged the rigor our of his muscles. They closed his eyes with adhesive, sealing them forever shut, those grey stormy eyes would never again gaze on a room, and take in it's contents, it's people, never again would they observe, or brighten with happiness.

His jaw would have been sealed with the same type of thread they used in the sutures of his shoulder. Through his gums and into his septum, they have stopped all his conversations, and prevented any more from ever happening. They pumped his body full of coloured chemicals to prevent him from rotting into bone for at least a little while longer.

He knows that they have applied foundation and lipstick and blush to try and give him a more lifelike complexion, that they would have shaved off any remains of stubble and covered every bruise scrape and scar with putty, and yet despite all this, they didn't have the decency to make him look anything more then dead.

Someone said that he looks like he's sleeping but he really doesn't. Charlie slept on his side, pulled up tight in a little bundle of sheets. Knowing the process which his body has gone through has not helped him grieve. It has instead perhaps made him feel worse, knowing what has gone on, the indignities he would have suffered.

His mother thinks he looks asleep, and is led crying from the corpse by a pale child that Lucien thinks might be Charlie's brother, one of them at least. He approached the body silently, and then settled a metal flask in the coffin with him, hidden from sight. He doesn't stay longer then he needs to. Charlie Davis is gone, and all that's left is the husk that held him.

…

There is a clear divide at the funeral, one side of the people are the people he knew from Melbourne, and the other side, those he knew from Ballarat. His mother keeps looking at him, as if he is to blame for the situation. So there he stands, like some kind of mistress, unwanted. But he stands his ground. He has as much right to say his final goodbyes as anyone else does, he thinks, as they coffin makes it's way down into the ground, sealing Charlie Davis away forever.

…

Someone is tasked with cleaning out Charlie's things to take to his family. It's not much, a couple of suitcases full in all. Lucien assumed the responsibility. Clothes are easy. He simply puts them into the suitcase or into boxes since he's brought clothes since being here. Clothes he can deal with. His police shirts, his normal shirts, his trousers and socks he can deal with all that.

Somethings are much harder, for example, his journal. He knew that he shouldn't, but he does anyway, flipping to a random page.

" _It's been quiet since Mattie left. I feel less and less like he actually want me to be here, and really why would he? I guess he wants to be alone with Jean more. Not that I blame them or anything like that, just hurts me a little bit. After all: He invited me here. Maybe I should begin looking for new accommodation on Saturday? A surprise for him perhaps? "_

Lucien could describe his current feeling in many ways. Sick, ill, nauseous, it wouldn't have been hard to assign a physical symptom to how he felt, and yet. And yet. That would seem to him as if this illness was getting off to easy. Did Charlie really feel like that? Like they didn't want him here. He sits, takes a breath in and out. Opens the book again, closer to the bookmark inside it.

" _even so, I have to wonder why Frank would have done something like that. It just doesn't seem like him. It's times like this I miss Munro. He was horrible, yes. But he was genuine. He was the shit person he was. Wonder what he's doing now he's been forced into retirement? Is it rude to ask? Hm._

 _In other news, Blake took me out to drink last night, says I missed the last time. I'm not really a person who much lends himself to parties, they're loud, people are rude and they smell like sweat. I suppose he knows that because it was just the two of us. I had a good time, a really good time. I will have to take him out next time however. "_

He fondly remembers the night in question. Charlie had been good company, he'd wanted to make it a regular thing, but never gotten around to ask him about it. Reading this book however much he wanted to, just seemed wrong. As if he was desecrating something personal, something private.

As if he wanted to hold Charlie himself close, he holds the book tight to his chest. Nothing happens. He continues packing.

Photos next. Photos are hard.

Charlie is smiling in almost all of them, ever glittering, embalmed behind glass as much as he was at the funeral. A photo of himself smiling with his mother and brothers, all seated on a formal looking bench, all smiling equally as big. A photo of his father in a starched military uniform, a photo of himself and Rose, they are both laughing, Rose is holding the camera in the air, the photo is taken from above. He hasn't seen Rose since the funeral. He wonders how she is. A photo taken with Lawson, probably also by Rose. Charlie is bent over in laughter, blurry to the camera. He is somehow grateful that it is kept. He stuffed it into his pocket, unable to give it to someone who wouldn't want it. He supposes Rose will like the photo of them, but the framed ones go in the box.

Other personal affects from the table go next. Half used tin of Brylcreem, metal comb, razor, shaving cream brush, all that has to go. A box of cigarettes, a half read romance novel wrapped in brown paper, a copy of the Bible it all goes in the box he's holding. All this stuff, left out, he was expecting to come back to it.

Matthew, his goldfish, is sitting on his dresser, swimming in circles, seemingly not knowing that his master was never coming back. He wonders what will become of the well loved goldfish now. Perhaps the Matthew Lawson that won the fish for him will take it back. Matthew the fish doesn't seem to care, and just continues waiting for his master to return.

He hadn't. Now he never would.

…

Charlie Davis is alive and sitting on his bed. His hands are neat in his lap, and his feet are flat on the floor, legs slightly spread, he looks like he always had, Lucien thinks, hurrying forward, relieved to see this dream has ended, relieved to see that Charlie is not dead he is not buried and his things don't need sorting, he is thinking that he will never drink again when he stops.

Charlie's head is encased in a large fishbowl, he is being careful not to tilt his head in either direction lest he spill water everywhere. A goldfish with a large forked tail swims past the glass, followed by a partner. Charlie is watching him with big blue eyes as he approaches. He grins.

"Doctor!" He said, voice distorted by the water. Strangely, his words don't cause the water to bubble at all.  
"Charlie." He replied, "How are you?"

"Better before I was shot." Charlie said, looking down as much as the bowl will allow. Six red spots have begun to bleed on his shirt. "How is your shoulder?"  
"Getting there."

"Are you using your sling?"

"No." Charlie sighs deeply. A fish in front of his face stops swimming and drifts to the surface. Charlie reaches up with one hand to grab the fish and examine it before giving it to Blake.

"Here."

"I don't think I want that."

"Here." Charlie is holding the fish out to him. He takes it, and tucks it into his pocket.

He wakes up. He sits up, and feels around suddenly desperate for the fish to be real. There is nothing in any of his clothing and his thrashing has awoken Jean, who is looking at him strangely from the other side of the bed. Nightmares are the norm and they can deal with those but this is the first time he's ever dreamed about Charlie's head in a fish bowl. His shoulder aches. He resolves to wear his sling.

…

Rose Anderson dealt with her grief by working. Not an unusual coping method, but probably not the healthiest one either. For the last two weeks, she has been working non stop. She has written a small stack of papers, possibly enough for a short book. Lucien delivers her a cup of tea. She doesn't look up.

"I'm working."

"I can see that. There's always time for a tea break."

"I can't stop."

"Why not?"  
"Because then I'll start thinking about his stupid face and fucking smile and his god damn mother fu-" She has stopped to ball her hands into fists then ball her fists into her eyes. "Fuck." She whispers, swallowing deeply. She begins typing again. Blake waits with her.

"What are you writing?"  
"A story."  
"Oh?"  
"A story about tighter gun control."

"Gun control?"  
"If we had better gun control, then that man would never have got his hands on the gun he used to shoot Charlie."

"Fair enough." Edward is watching from a place where he thinks he is hidden. He is not. "I still think you should take a short break."

"Why?"

"Because I doubt Charlie would want you to work yourself to death." She pauses, and takes a sip of tea. She looks at him.

"It's horrible." Lucien looks offended.

"Sorry." Rose drinks it in almost one go.

"It's drunk. You can go now, let me finish." Blake replies by fishing the photo of her and Charlie from his pocket and gives it to her. She looks down, and for a few moments nothing happens, until it does, and Lucien Blake suddenly finds his arms full of Rose Anderson. She is crying. Eventually, he releases her. There is mascara on her face that she is wiping away with the back of her hand. She is now looking at the photo again. In the photo, her arm is holding the camera way above them, snapping the picture of them together

"He wants to take me to the pictures." She whispered.

"Did you want to go with him?"  
"Yes. I still told him no, but."

"Why?"  
"I'm not sure. If I'd said yes, do you think he'd still be here?"

Blake cannot say. They study each other and then she goes back to work, and he lets her.

…

Jean still sets three seats at the table, even though they only use two seats. She doesn't mean to, but once the plate is down it never goes away, just sits there, a huge elephant trying to squeeze up to their kitchen table, into the very Charlie shaped hole he left behind.

Neither of them want to speak about it or bring it up, so there the elephant sits, taking up so much space that it is almost suffocating them. There is a silence that hangs here now, neither wanting to to find new lodgers, neither wanting to admit that they needed them.

The elephant is bursting out of the room when she says it.

"I still think I can hear him sometimes." Then the stillness returns. She has tossed the ball to his court.

"Yesterday, I thought I heard him at the station, and I turned around, and there was no one there other then my imagination."

"Sometimes I think I see him in crowds, and I follow him, but he's not real."

It's strange how death warps your perspective of things. In life, Jean and Charlie had not been close, but now he was gone, and he'd made that horrible silence, it seemed like he was her close friend. People are always kind of like that, aren't they? Lies and death go together hand in hand. It shouldn't really be a surprise, not now, not anymore.

The elephant is watching them, waiting.  
"I really miss him." Jean confesses, "I wish...I wish I knew him better." She said, softly. "Now he's gone." She sighed. "He's gone forever."

"I know." Lucien misses him too.

…

He remembers the day when Charlie got the god forsaken goldfish. They were attending a fete, because Jean had entered a cake, and Charlie, ever a giant child, saw, and fell in love with the fish at a screw ball toss. And him, always ready to flex his muscles, knocked down all the pins in a single well aimed toss, and proceeded to grant Charlie custody of the fish, promptly named Matthew, are the man who won it for him

Matthew swam in circles on Lawson's desk listlessly, seemingly missing his master. "I know, mate." He sighed, looking over at the fish. "I miss him as well." He murmured, putting a pinch of food into the bowl in an attempt to perk him up. It didn't work. The fish ignored it and continued to swim around sadly. So far, he hadn't been able to find a vet who would treat a fish. They told him buy a new one. He doesn't want a new one. He wants this fish.

He is struck with an idea. He left for a moment, and returned with a photograph of himself and Charlie, the only one he has. Charlie is holding the fish bowl proudly, and he is holding an oversized stuffed bear Charlie had won for him later in the day (the bear was promptly named Charles) in return for the goldfish. He set the photo next to the fish tank, before feeling like an idiot. It's just a fish. He doesn't care about Charlie, or anything really. His bowl probably just needed cleaning.

He resolves to do it tomorrow, and carries Matthew up to the bedroom, setting him down on the dresser, with the photo, and then going to bed, resting his bad leg on top of the bear.

Charlie is standing, holding Matthew's bowl close to his chest. Lawson watches him. Charlie's head is in a comically large fishbowl, a single fish is swimming around his face. Lawson watches, almost amused by the situation. The fish vanishes behind Charlie's head.

"How are you?" He asked, glancing down at the six blood stains making their way across his shirt.  
"Terrible." He replied, letting the fish return in front of his face. He stuck his hand in the water, and produced the fish. It flapped around on his palm for several moments, before he stuck it in the bowl with Matthew. The fish swim together, pleased. Charlie holds the fish bowl out to him, waiting. Lawson accepts it.

"Thank you."

"Take good care of him." Charlie said, softly, "And of yourself, please." Lawson nodded, looking into the bowl, pleased to see Matthew swimming happily again.

When he wakes up, Matthew has perked up considerably. The photo of Charlie has fallen down in the night, leaning on the glass of the bowl. He wonders about his dream for a moment, and then sits up, and puts a pinch of food into the bowl. Matthew swims to it to eat, not shying away from his fingers. He wonders, for a second, if you can pet a fish. He doesn't try. Matthew seems happy enough now. He took the bowl, and his cane, and made his way, very slowly, to the kitchen.

…

Rose lowered the flowers onto the grave, and stood there, watching it. Charlie Davis. Loved by Many. 1928-1960. Simple, yet elegant. Charlie would have liked it. He probably would have prefered to have his police rank on there, she wonders why his mother didn't. Perhaps she hated the police for taking not only her husband, but now her eldest son as well. Perhaps she just thought it was neater without it.

"I don't really know why people go and talk to graves." She said, folding her arms over her chest to ward off the chill. "It's not like you can hear, you're dead, after all." Charlie doesn't reply. He is, in fact dead. Gone. "It's probably good you died young." She informed the rock. "I would have hated watching you get old." She is wringing her fingers now, and then lowered herself down, setting a small packet of popcorn and a movie ticket onto the dirt.

"I should have said yes." She whispered, "But you have to come back now, you wouldn't want to stand me up, would you?" She asked, laughing at herself for the whole lousy situation. "This is so ridiculous. "She whispered. "God. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She said, as she finally dissolved into tears.

Charlie is leaning on the gravestone, with a large fishbowl on his head. It's so ridiculous that she almost laughs. But she doesn't. Aside from him, the bowl is empty. Rose runs forward and wraps her arms around him, sloshing water out of the fish bowl. Charlie rights himself, and pries her off.

"Sorry I have to cancel our date." He said, with a little sigh. A little bubble escapes his mouth and heads for the top of the bow.

"I get to see you now don't I?" Charlie smiles, and holds out one of his hands, she takes it, and put his hand on her hip. She put one on his shoulder, and they dance, slowly, to their own song. After several moments, she leans up, eyes closed, and kisses his fish bowl. Her lips leave a mark over his.

She wakes up in the rain. She fell asleep at the cemetery and there is mud on her skirt. Getting to her feet, she gives one last look at the headstone, and hurries away to safety.

…

She misses cooking with Charlie. While his approach was sloppy, un trained, even, he was always willing to learn and without him to cook with, the kitchen somehow seems more empty. It's ridiculous, and she knows it It was not like cooking with Jean was part of his nightly ritual, it was just something he did some of the time. But now, knowing that she would never cook with him again, it's a heavy weight to bare. "God, Charlie." She said, to no one in particular, leaning her face in her hands.

Charlie is sitting across from her at the table, and his head in in a large glass fishbowl. He just watches her, and she watches him, neither have an awful lot to say.

"Will you look after him?" Charlie asked, in a soft voice.

"I will." She assured him, giving him a smile. Charlie nodded, and looked over, and out the window.

"Go." She advised. He nodded, and got to his feet.

The kettle is screaming behind her. Charlie is gone. The curtains flutter in the breeze and Jean is reminded of the tail of a fish.


End file.
